


The Wreck of Our Hearts

by only_more_love



Series: 2019 Cap-Ironman Bingo, Round 1 [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Steve's so tired of being tired. Can Tony help?Written for the 2019 Cap-Ironman Bingo, Round 1 - Square S5: Resurrection.





	1. 99 Problems and Sleep Ain't One

**Author's Note:**

> Title is borrowed from [ The Wreck of Our Hearts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsNm54UwWWQ>) by Sleeping Wolf. Go listen, and read the lyrics. :)

After.

After they defeat Thanos and reverse the snap, rebuilding continues. Life, such as it is, goes on. This, then, this going on and on and on, in spite of the suffocating embrace of ice in his lungs; in spite of the heft of every choice, of every mistake he’s ever made, it’s all Steve knows.

He’s supposed to be happy.

He should be happy.

Why isn’t he happy?

(Bucky. Sam. Tony. Wanda. Fury. Maria Hill. Vision. Alive again.)

And yet.

And yet.

Once something breaks, even if the pieces are glued back together, phantom fissures remain along the original fractures. You can feel them with your fingertips if you’re slow and careful.

Steve wanders the long, echoing compound hallways like a ghost. Most mornings he looks in the mirror after he’s pissed; washed his hands; brushed his teeth―done the things that going on entails―and doesn’t see his reflection. Just a Vaseline-like smear in the silvered glass. That should worry him, probably, more than it does. It would worry Sam if he knew.

This is what he’s become, then: soundless footsteps well past midnight and his fists kissing heavy bags Tony designed to take his strength, as though there’s an answer to be found in their weighted centers.

(There are never any answers.)

After the gym, tonight he’s in the kitchen. Cold chrome and fine-veined marble counters. Stools and chairs enough for all the Avengers. His family. But it’s sometime after 3:00 am, and the other chairs and stools sit empty.

The chair’s solidity under his ass tells him he’s rooted somewhere, not tumbling out of the sky with the ocean’s gaping, indigo maw rushing up to meet him.

He still feels like he’s falling.

Sweat makes his t-shirt stick to his back, and he’s brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead, gaze tipped down to the dog-eared mega book of crossword puzzles flopped open on the kitchen table in front of him, when he smells Tony. Motor oil and metal cut through with faded soap―something woodsy and citrus. Warm. Bright. Sharp. Like the man.

He’s not for Steve, though. Not anymore. Before Siberia, maybe. But this is after.

Steve doesn’t think Tony will linger in the kitchen. Not while he’s in there, too. This is who they are now, strangers who avoid each other when possible and make stilted, overly polite conversation when that’s _not_ possible.

Steve swallows hard against the Sahara in his throat and lets his pencil scratch a squiggly line in the margin of the thin page in front of him. He needs more sleep than he’s getting, but sleep doesn’t come easily. “Four-letter word for delicate handling,” he says in a murmur, blinking dry, tired eyes. “Hm.”

“―ct, Rogers,” and just the sound of those three syllables uttered in Tony’s voice and directed at only Steve ripples down his shoulders and coils, hot, at the base of his spine.

He was Cap once. Steve, even. Not anymore. Now he’s Rogers.

Tony’s voice distracts him so thoroughly Steve can’t make sense of what Tony’s said. “What?” he asks, putting down his pencil and glancing up at Tony, who’s halfway across the kitchen, cradling a mug between two hands, stroking his thumbs over the white stoneware. Jealousy, overwhelming and irrational, sweeps over Steve, settling in his cheeks.

“The word you’re looking for is tact.”

He’d laugh, Steve would, but all he can do is stare at Tony, slack-jawed. He’s talking to Steve. Actually _talking_ to Steve for the first time since _before_ , with a glint of that old humor gleaming in his voice, and the only thing Steve wants to do is look at him. Soak in his presence.

His hair’s grown a little long, tipping up and out at the ends. Under the overhead lights, threads of silver that weren’t there before shine, nested amongst all that warm brown. Salt peppers his goatee. Thanos and what Tony survived after carved new hollows into his face, deepened the life around his eyes and mouth. He’s thinner and harder now―like a surgeon’s scalpel sheared away everything unnecessary and left behind only the essence of Tony Stark.

Tony’s forty-nine and he looks it, and if there was any mercy left in this terrible world that costs everything to live in, Steve would curl around his smaller body, in his arms, and make a home for himself there.

After all this time? Still. Always.

“Thanks,” Steve says, penciling in the word and then leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t want Tony to leave. “Do you want something to eat? I was going to make some eggs.” That’s not, strictly speaking, true. He wasn’t going to eat anything, but for the chance to keep Tony around for even a few more precious minutes, he’ll gladly make two dozen.

Tony props himself against the kitchen island, and Steve can’t help but notice that his time-worn jeans hang just a touch too loose from his hips. He’s lost weight and clearly isn’t eating enough to replace what he lost. Once upon a time, Steve would’ve frowned at him and started in with lecture number two thousand on the importance of eating enough and eating regularly. Now the words crawl up Steve’s throat only to die on his tongue. That’s not who they are to each other now; it was never his place, to begin with, but he had cared enough about Tony to not care that it wasn’t.

He still cares even if he doesn’t have the right to.

Tony clicks his nails along the outer rim of his mug. His eyes narrow, and he sucks on his upper lip, appearing to consider Steve’s question. “Scrambled?” he finally asks.

“Sure. Anything you want,” Steve answers quickly―too quickly, if the narrow-eyed glance Tony aims at him is anything to go by―before Tony can change his mind, run away, and leave Steve alone with his crosswords and his insomnia and whatever else lurks in his head.

Thankfully, Tony doesn’t push, and that, too, is different. That, too, is who they are now, after, but not who they were before. Polite strangers who are so concerned about overstepping boundaries that they’re barely in each other’s orbit.

Grief washes over Steve, cold and final, and hot with shame, he feels his eyes dampen. He doesn’t have the right to do to this. Before his face can crumble, though, Tony asks, “Can I help?”

Steve clears his throat and pushes himself out of his chair. “Yeah. Um, plates and silverware. Please. That’s all.”

“You got it.” Tony moves to do as asked but stumbles.

Steve reaches Tony and catches him before he falls, hands firm at his arms. The black band tee Tony’s wearing is too loose around his chest and stomach, and they’re standing too close to each other, and his biceps are too warm under Steve’s palms. _Let go_ , his brain screams. _Let him go now._

But Steve can’t let go―at least, not without brushing his thumbs over Tony’s skin. “You okay?” Two words are all he can manage around the ache blooming in his chest and twining around his throat.

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Yes. I’m just― Just tired, is all.”

“You don’t sleep enough.” Steve releases his grip on Tony and lets his arms drop to his sides, but Tony doesn’t move away. Purple bruises are painted around his eyes, but his eyes, his eyes are soft, brown, and thick-lashed as Steve looks down at him.

Tony snorts a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Neither do you.”

“I can’t,” Steve says, and he knows it’s too honest as soon as he says it.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t sleep. I try, but I have these dreams. And I”―Steve pauses and shakes his head, fists clenching and releasing, eyes shut tightly―”I can’t breathe.”

When Steve opens his eyes, Tony returns his gaze, a wrinkle knit between his brows. “You should talk to someone about that,” he says, voice so gentle that Steve almost can’t breathe.

“I am. I’m talking to you.”

“That’s not what I meant, Cap,” Tony says, shaking his head.

It’s the _Cap_ that must do it. He hasn’t heard it from Tony in so long. Since before, and―

“Sleep with me,” Steve blurts out.

This time Tony jerks back, putting several feet of space between them.

“Whoa, Rogers.” He raises his hands as if to ward off Steve. “At least buy me dinner first.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, heat punching him in the face and climbing the back of his neck, and oh, now might be a good time for another apocalyptic event. “That came out badly.” He sighs and scrubs both hands over his face. “I meant _just_ sleep with me. Share a bed.”

Tony doesn’t immediately say no, which makes Steve feel better―not much, though. “Why?”

“I’m tired, Tony. So tired,” he says, sounding hoarse. As embarrassing as this is, given how far he’s come already, he may as well finish this exercise in abject humiliation. It’ll be one more mistake to ponder when Tony shoots him down and Steve finds himself lying awake for hours in a cold bed empty of everything but himself and his racing thoughts. “But I can’t sleep, and maybe if someone was there...If you were there, maybe it would help. I won’t”―he has to inhale deeply to get the rest out―”I won’t touch you.” He won’t because he’s certain Tony wouldn’t want that, but he’d want to all the same. The yearning to touch Tony has been present for so long now that Steve can scarce imagine himself without it. “Just platonic sleeping. Or trying to sleep.”

Steve dips his head and fixes his gaze on a swirling knot that looks unsettlingly like an eye in one of the floor's wood boards while he waits for Tony to laugh and tell him what an idiot he is for thinking Tony would ever sleep, just sleep, with him. But the laughter doesn’t come. When Steve dares to glance up again, Tony’s watching him, one hand rubbing at his chest, and head canted to the side, eyes keen and intelligent, likely seeing far more than Steve wants him to. As always. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, fine. What? Why are you looking at me like that? I said okay. Do you want it in writing, signed in blood?”

“No. Tony, no. Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I may give you worse nightmares. Can we eat first, though? I actually am kinda hungry now.”

“Yeah, of course. Yes, scrambled eggs.”


	2. Stay (Faraway, So Close)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot. That clearly went well.

A wash of cold air hits Steve, prickling over his face, neck, and upper body when he opens the door of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator that sits in the Avengers facility kitchen. Goosebumps break out on his skin, and he absentmindedly rubs at his arms. The assorted containers and cartons seated on the refrigerator shelves start to smear into an amorphous mass of color.

“...Cap?” Tony says in a way that implies this isn't the first time he's said it. His voice sounds like it’s coming from a great distance. “Hey, Cap, you all right?”

Steve blinks, twice, quickly, and shakes his head, trying to clear it. In front of him, the indiscriminate jumble of things resolves back into individual items. His glass bottle of whole milk, everyone else’s skim milk, his and Sam’s pulpy orange juice, Bruce’s kombucha, a container of potato salad. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, just staring into the depths of the fridge. Long enough, certainly, for Tony to wonder about it. That’s― There’s a thread of something like worry in Tony’s voice; Steve hears it, wants to label it as worry even though it hurts to hope that’s what it is, hurts with a pins and needles tingle like blood pushing into places that have been asleep for eons. Still, even the mere possibility that Tony’s concerned about him eases the heavy knot in Steve’s stomach just a notch, the one he’s been carrying around since―

He has no idea how long he’s been carrying it around.

He clears his throat roughly and looks down at the floor before he turns, angling his body part way toward Tony, and flashes him a swift glance over his shoulder. “Yeah, Tony. Of course, ‘m fine,” he says. Their gazes don’t meet; Steve aims his eyes just north of Tony’s eyebrows. _Coward_. A reassuring smile seems like the thing to do, so Steve tries for one. His teeth grit, and he forces his rusty lips into what should be a convincing curve. He swivels back around, facing the fridge before he says, “I was just…” The sentence peters out into slumped shoulders and a whispering sigh that still sounds like the loudest thing in the kitchen.

“Yeah. Next time maybe try for more ‘real boy’ and less Pinocchio,” Tony says, all scathing, dry wit and sarcasm, so very Tony, and _oh_ , how Steve’s missed this. Missed him. “That is, if you actually want to convince anyone you’re fine.”

“I am fine,” Steve insists. He is. Sure, he hasn’t been sleeping much, so he’s tired, even with the serum helping to offset that, but he’s still standing, with his arms, legs, heart, lungs, and every muscle and organ in between functioning. If a threat emerged right then and they needed to assemble, he’d power through. In under five minutes, he’d be dressed in his uniform, all the zips and snaps done up right and tight, shield back in hand because Tony’d returned it to him so many months ago― _It’s yours, Rogers. It’ll always be yours._ (That means something, doesn’t it? He needs it to mean something.)―heavy boots pounding a familiar, reassuring rhythm up the Quinjet’s ramp in time with the clip-clop of his young-old heart. Ready to meet any threat and fight alongside his team―their team. He’s fine.

“Sure. Of course, you are,” Tony says, tone deceptively mild.

Steve already knows he’s in trouble.

When Steve turns, hands propped on his hips, Tony cocks an eyebrow at him in that Tony way of his that says, _You’re full of shit. In fact, you’re full of five Porta Potties’ worth of shit, and I’m going to call you out on it._

“You’re fine.” Eyes scrunched, Tony slashes his pointer finger in Steve’s direction. “I’m fine.” Tony jabs his thumb against his own chest. “We’re all fantastically fine,” he says―with a grin that’s more grimace than anything genuinely happy―and claps his hands in front of him in a gesture that ends with an expansive flourish.

He holds his breath when Tony puts his phone down on the table, pushes his chair back, and starts walking toward Steve, his gait easy and loose. Steve’s fingers tighten on his hips, digging into bone, as Tony gets closer. “Don’t know what you want from me, Tony,” he mumbles.

A foot or so away, Tony stops and slides his hands into his front pockets. His thumbs peek out, though, and stroke the denim in back and forth swipes.

Steve burns. Burns and wonders whether being near Tony will always mean being reduced to ash.

In his slippered feet, Tony’s more than a couple inches shorter than Steve. Unfortunately, this has never bothered Steve. Tipping his head back and baring his throat, Tony peers up at Steve, face melting into considering lines. “What _I_ want from _you_?” Tony draws out the final word, gaze fastened to Steve’s, and Steve knows as he stares back that the shape Tony’s mouth forms as it curves around the soft, rounded vowel is going to linger in his eidetic memory for a long, long time. It sends heat flaring to Steve’s face and collecting at the tops of his ears. “Please.” Tony licks his bottom lip. It doesn’t seem intentional, but that also makes no difference to Steve. Just a half-second flicker of tongue and then it’s gone, but God, Steve wants to bend and chase it with his mouth and hands. Tony gives his head a small shake. “You’re the one who promised me eggs and asked me to sleep with you. Me?” Steve would look elsewhere, but he can’t because having Tony’s eyes on him feels good in a way not much else has in quite a while. It’s Tony who finally shifts his gaze away, throat working on a swallow Steve wants to press his lips against so he can taste the motion and feel his warm skin. “I don’t want anything from you.” Tony’s features appear pinched, but only for a split second, before his expression smooths out, and Steve’s left frowning and blinking at him with the same feeling he gets when he takes in artwork that looks just slightly off, wrong, even, because the shadows and highlights haven’t been placed correctly according to where the light source should be.

The declaration hovers and undulates in the air between them, gathering a certain weight and stickiness Steve can almost taste.

Three short, sharp beeps sound, startling Steve enough that he steps to the side, jostling Tony with his body. A warm hand wraps around his wrist and a palm flattens against his chest, just above his heart, pulling him up short and steadying him. The beeping, he realizes, feeling more than a little foolish as he cranes his neck, searching for its source, is just the fridge letting him know he’s left it standing open too long. Steve’s pulse, though, is anything but steady, ricocheting like his shield when he throws it at an enemy or obstacle, as he inhales sharply through his nose and slowly slides his gaze down to where Tony’s fingers still bracelet the fine bones of his wrist. The touch, though surely casual, feels scalding against the thin skin there.

Like a child afraid to spook a wild rabbit and send it dashing away, Steve doesn’t dare move.

Tony hasn’t touched him of his own volition since they first reunited after Thanos. Just a brisk, fleeting _Glad you’re still alive_ handshake, Tony’s palm sliding against his, ending before it even began, over so quickly Steve couldn’t process it. That handshake hadn’t satisfied the need in him that was carved with Tony’s name and Tony’s voice and Tony’s brown eyes laced with green flecks when he stood in sunlight and _TonyTonyTonyTony_ , and it couldn’t possibly have conveyed all the words, thoughts, and feelings Steve had tried so hard to swallow but wound up choking on instead as they backed up like acid in his raw throat since well before his life went and took a fiery express train to hell in Siberia.

He keeps his unblinking gaze trained on the curl of Tony’s fingers around his wrist until his eyes dry and his vision blurs. Only then does he blink and allow his gaze to arc up until it meets Tony’s. Immediately, he wishes he hadn’t because Tony releases him and retreats several steps, brows drawn down, lips flattened, and arms folded over his chest, and no, that’s not at all what Steve wanted, but he supposes what he wants doesn’t much matter―at least when it comes to Tony. His body language couldn’t be a clearer _Do Not Enter_ sign, so when another series of chirps sounds, Steve drags a thumb over the wrist Tony had touched, hoping against hope that he won’t notice the small motion, shoves a pang of disappointment down deep, and then begins pulling things out of the refrigerator and lining them up on the kitchen island. He gets as far as the butter dish before Tony heaves a huge sigh and shuts the fridge doors in his face. He shakes his head and waves his hands at Steve in a shooing gesture.

“But I was going to make eggs and―”

Tony cuts him off with an eye-roll. “I know. Just”―he flaps his hands again, so Steve hunches his shoulders and goes back to the table. Tony’s sharp eyes drift, to Steve’s shoulders if he’s tracking his gaze correctly, and his expression softens noticeably―”sit for a few minutes and let me do this. Then you can go egg wild. Oh, come on, stop it with the kicked puppy eyes, Cap. They don’t work on me anymore.”

 _They_ _never_ _have_ , Steve thinks but doesn’t say.

The _Cap_ sparks an involuntary warmth in Steve’s belly, even as he mentally scolds himself to pay it no attention because it doesn’t and can’t mean anything. _It means something to me._ He settles into his chair again and discovers he can’t help the tiny smile his lips twitch into―even though he tries to hide it with a not-so-subtle swipe of his hand across his face―or the weightless and fluttery sensation that rises in his chest when Tony flicks him an answering smile that’s just as small as his but nonetheless appears real. _Precious_ , Steve thinks, and tucks Tony’s smile into the same cozy, patchwork pocket in his memory where he keeps his ma, Bucky, Peggy and her red-lipped smile, and all his people, including his Howlies.

“What are you going to make?” Steve asks, pitching his voice a little louder than he usually would so Tony can still hear him from where he’s disappeared into the large pantry. Bottles clink and bags rustle, presumably as Tony rummages around in the pantry, searching for what exactly Steve has no idea.

Tony pops his head out of the pantry and waves a medium-sized jar of honey. “Warm milk and honey,” he answers. There’s something about the way he says it that curls under Steve’s skin and pricks his curiosity. A gentle, nearly melancholy note rings, sustained, just beneath the surface of Tony’s words; a mirrored tone peals in Steve, and he stiffens. When Tony emerges from the pantry, he closes the door behind him, leaning back against it with his eyes closed. One hand clutches the honey, the other taps the center of his thigh. That’s Tony for as long as Steve’s known him: in motion even when he’s still. “It’s good for sleep.” Since Tony’s eyes are shut, Steve takes advantage of that to soak him in—the way his eyelashes form a dark crescent above his cheeks; how the hair next to his ear moves into a small curl that looks so soft that his fingertips itch, first to touch it and second to draw it; the way light and shadow seduce each other around his nose and mouth. Not more than a handful of seconds pass before Tony’s eyes blink open and Steve tries not to look like he was just staring at him. “Mostly Jarvis and sometimes”—Tony clears his throat and scratches at the corner of his mouth with his free hand—“sometimes my mom used to make it for me before bed or if I had trouble sleeping.”

Steve has to clench his fists to keep from crossing the kitchen and going to Tony to offer him comfort. Tony might want comfort. He might even need it, but Steve’s certain he doesn’t want it from him. Bile creeps up his throat, sour and hot, but he forces it back. “I’m sorry, Tony,” he says, “for so many things. I didn’t mean— I never wanted to hurt you.” Short sentences comprised of small words that don’t begin to encompass the swirling clot of things Steve thinks and feels. Words have never been his closest friends, though.

Not in the moment. Not when it mattered. Not now, certainly.

“Yeah. I know. Got your note and that stupid flip phone.” There’s a sardonic twist to Tony’s mouth that yanks the bottom right out of Steve’s stomach. “Carried that dinosaur around with me everywhere, did you know that? Here’s a fun fact for you: it never rang.” Before Steve can respond, Tony shakes his head and raises his free hand in a gesture that means stop. “You’re gearing up to say something. I can see it on your face. Whatever it is you want to say, whatever it is you think you _should_ say, just don’t, okay?”

Despite Tony’s words and despite the plea Steve hears in them, he can’t help himself. “Tony, please—“

“No,” Tony says, interrupting him. The _thunk_  of the honey jar as he places it on the counter is a gunshot. Armorless, Steve flinches. “We’re not doing this right now. I am not doing this. Last time it tore apart the team. _Our_ team. And our team matters way more than you or I do." Tony's fingers weave through his hair, light speared through dark, rumpling and tugging until Steve rolls his shoulders and bites his lips so he won't loose the scream that's building in the aching cavern of his chest. "We open that Pandora’s box all the way and there’s no telling what’ll come crawling out.”

It’s not that he doesn’t agree that the team as a whole matters more than he and Tony do as individuals. All he has to do is look at Thanos and there’s his proof that they’re stronger as a unit. Steve has to try, anyway, because that’s who he is and he still hasn't learned how to be someone else. “Just listen to me for five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“What you’re asking for, I can’t give you. Not right now, and maybe never.” He razes Steve with a brittle look that turns the unspoken words in Steve’s throat to dust. “Cap,” he says, softly, as if he’s begging for understanding; Steve, he remembers begging, too, even if it was mostly silently, for Tony to understand about Bucky, and Tony’s parents, and Steve’s lies of omission, and this time hearing Tony call him Cap doesn’t feel like unexpected grace. Instead, it leaves Steve hollow, like someone took a dull knife and gutted his insides before tossing him on the ground and leaving him there to flop around and gasp, helplessly, for air. “We broke something.”

_We broke something._

Not _I_ or _you._   _We._  
  
Maybe if there’s any comfort to be found here, it’s in that―in knowing they're both culpable.

The worst part―the absolute worst part of all this―is that Steve knows Tony isn’t simply being cruel. At least, not on purpose. If he was, then Steve could dismiss his words and the look on his face as he said them. No, Tony’s telling the truth as he sees it, and while it would be easier if Steve could fault him for that, he can’t. “Can we...Do you think we can fix it?” He asks the question without knowing how he’d answer it himself.

Tony chews his lip, appearing deep in thought, and Steve appreciates that he doesn’t immediately throw back something quippy and cutting just for the sake of answering. Finally, he sighs and looks at Steve. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In part 2, there's an Easter egg in the form of something I borrowed from Game of Thrones. If you spot it, please tell me. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading. :) Comments and kudos are always appreciated. If you've enjoyed this story, please let me know. All comments are treasured, and I do respond to all of them, though it sometimes takes me a while.
> 
> Other places you can find me: [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/onlymorelove), [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com), [Dreamwidth](https://only-more-love.dreamwidth.org/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/onlymorelove). I'm on Discord as onlymorelove#8488; you can often find me posting garbage on various Marvel Discord servers.

**Author's Note:**

> There's something I borrowed from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Why? Because I'm a huge dork. Tell me if you spot it. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading. :) Comments and kudos are always appreciated. If you've enjoyed this story, please let me know. All comments are treasured, and I do respond to all of them, though it sometimes takes me a while.
> 
> Other places you can find me: [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/onlymorelove), [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com), [Dreamwidth](https://only-more-love.dreamwidth.org/), and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/onlymorelove). I'm on Discord as onlymorelove#8488; you can often find me posting garbage in the MCU Stony Discord.


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